Chicken Dumpling Soup for the Soul
by Vellacora
Summary: What if Sherlock and John had previously met before that day at St. Barts? Instead they met as two lonely men, one who needed acceptance; the other needed the company of a stranger. Who knew that all it took was a bowl of soup.


Chicken Dumpling Soup for the Soul

* * *

It was cold, unbelievably so. The snow that had fallen the weeks before had turned into dirty, grey chunks of ice and the air was filled with a stagnant frosty smell. Crowds of people strutted by him and paid no heed. Christmas was in a week and shopping was the main priority on their minds. Who would have the time or the money to spare for a dark-haired homeless man in a tattered coat?

His face was gaunt and pale, his chapped lips nearly matched the same tone of his white skin but were tinged with a purple hue and his tired blood-shot eyes were ringed with dark circles. His hair was a tangled nest and his face was dirty and smudged. His violin, the last precious thing he owned and was able to keep laid in his lap. The metal strings were cold and tight and he long ago gave up playing in the hopes to get some extra change.

He was too cold, too hungry and too weak to stand up and continue playing so he just sat there against the wall of the building and stared down at the ground in front of him. His vision was going blurry and all he wanted to do one to sleep.

He felt himself give a weak chuckle as he realized the irony of the situation. He had always hated how fragile the human body was, always needing rest or food but now he would give up his best stash of crack (if he still had it) to have a good warm bed and a nice hot meal to go with it.

Just as he felt like he was finally going to give in to the numbing blanket that the darkness behind his eyelids were offering, two brown leather shoes stopped right in front of him. They at first just stood there, not moving and after what felt like too long to be deemed appropriate at staring at a homeless person the owner of the brown leather shoes walked away.

Fifteen minutes later the shoes returned and along with it the scent of warm food. He finally looked up to the shoe's owner only to be greeted with a sad smile. A man around the age of 25 stood before him. He was wearing an ugly red jumper with a rugged brown scarf around his neck that was slightly frayed on the sides indicating long use. He had short, sandy brown hair, a small square face that looked tired, and warm eyes that were either blue, green or hazel. They seemed to change each time he focused on them.

"Here take it." The man finally spoke, "It's not much but I know that this café has the best cornbread around. Plus you look like you could go for some food." As if to emphasize the food the man thrusted it forward again while slightly shaking it as if to get his attention.

He scowled, he didn't like the idea he was excepting charity like some groveling dog, but it would be even more foolish as to deny the only substantial nourishment he's had for the past week. He extended a shaky hand and after a brief moment of hesitation quickly swiped the bag and tore inside the bag. The steamy puff of the food inside was delectable and it seemed like his stomach agreed after a loud growl was emitted. It had been a long time since he had food like this. It consisted of what the cornbread the man had mentioned and what it appeared to be a creamy chicken dumpling soup.

He quickly tore off a piece of the cornbread and dipped it into the soup. He couldn't help the small noise of appreciation that escaped his mouth as he quickly chewed his food before repeating the process again. He burnt his tongue from the hot soup but it barely registered in his mind.

"Woah, hey slow down. If you eat that fast your body would just end up rejecting it and the food you ate would be a waste on the floor. I don't think I need to tell you that the soup is hot."

The sandy-haired man crouched down until he shuffled to his side and sat beside him. For a moment he just stared at his shoes and played with his scarf before speaking.

"I'm John, how long have you been out here?"

He didn't answer him. He hoped that if he ignored this man, John, long enough he would just leave like the others would. John however, was patient as he waited for a bit before continuing.

"It's awfully cold out here. If you're not careful you can get sick."

He still did not want to answer and instead focused on his quickly dwindling supply of bread and soup.

"There's a spoon in the bag if you want to drink the soup and get the chicken. When I was young my mother usually made soup similar to this whenever I caught a cold. It's a sure-fire way to beat the cold. Don't you have someone you can stay with? Like a parent, an aunt, uncle, siblings?"

The last question caught him off guard and he paused in his voracious eating. He thought about his mother whom he hadn't seen since last year, he never really been close to other relatives and would only see them in the obligatory family reunions when he was young. But then he thought about Mycroft… was it really just a month since he had that fight with him? His brother had found him high beyond comprehension and when he had finally come back down he found that his brother had thrown out all of his drugs. He didn't even have over the counter cold medicine anymore. He was furious and hurtful words were thrown, and maybe some mugs and chairs were too but the damage was done and he left with his violin and the clothes on his back. Now he was reduced to this. A homeless violinist that took up the space by the wall of a shopping outlet and was eating fattening comfort food as if it were a feast fit for gods.

"No." Was all he decided to answer. His voice was gravelly and deep from disuse.

"Oh! He speaks! For a while I thought that perhaps you were mute and that I was just being rude asking you all these questions. What's your name?"

John, this strange little man was interesting but he didn't want him to stay longer than he should.

"No."

John furrowed his brow and bit his lower lip as he looked away. "I see. Well I hope you don't mind that I sit here for a bit. I'm just avoiding the inevitably of having to go home. Harry's not all too happy that I will be leaving soon and can get pretty loud, especially after having a drink or two." John leaned back and stared at the many passing people.

"I do mind."

"Excuse me?"

"I do mind that you sit there."

"Oh, well that doesn't seem too nice, especially to someone who just gave you an early supper."

"I never asked you to give it to me."

"But you still took it."

He didn't reply and after a brief staring contest between two stubborn people John finally turned his attention back to the crowd.

"Well since you have a violin with you I take it that you had a home at one point and judging by the still good condition of it, you haven't been homeless for long. What happened?"

"Drugs." He didn't look at up but instead focused on the now empty bowl of soup in front of him. From the corner of his eye he could see John frown.

"Well that's not good, you should stop."

He waited to hear the onslaught that he's heard from many before him. How destructive drugs are, how they not only will ruin his life but others as well, how he is just being a burden, and how selfish, insane, or stupid he was for becoming a drug addict in the beginning. Or maybe he would try to recommend help like others who tried to be sympathetic for him, how he should look into therapy and perhaps even go to church to find the power of God to help set him on the road to goodness. Instead he is only answered with silence as John continued to look forward and watch the many consumers flowing in and out of the stores. He waited a bit longer but the silence and enigma of the man was becoming more and more frustrating.

"Is that it?"

John looked at him with thoroughly confused eyes. "What's it?"

"You're just going to tell me that it's not good and that I should stop but nothing else? No spitting words of the atrocity and disgust of craving drugs as if it were air, no falsely sympathetic smiles that barely conceal the pity behind words of sympathy and false understanding, no lecture of 12 step plans, therapy groups, or how I must regain my faith again? Either you are stupid, naïve, or a fool if not a combination of all three."

In the process of his rant he had stood up on shaky tall legs and towered over the other man who was still sitting on the cardboard that protected their pants from the wet, cold ground. John's eyes were wide but instead of an angry rebuttal, or a fearful apology that most people would have done, John just let out a breathy laugh. That seemed to squash his frustration out as quickly as pouring water over a candle stick.

"Wow, so you can speak more than a sentence. You have a good voice, you should use it more."

He sat back down in a defeated fashion, "Who are you John? What brings you out in the cold with Christmas around the corner when you should be spending money on useless material items and preparing artery clogging fatty foods that the holidays call for? Instead you are here with me, a drug addict with a violin."

John shrugged, "Like I said, I just don't feel like returning to family yet and you seemed like you needed someone to talk to, if anything you basically needed something to eat but I take what I can get. I do agree that delving into drugs is destructive and terrible but I cannot be one to judge your life when I barely know you. Clearly you've already heard from many different people's opinions but that's not what I do or what I want to do. If my patients need help I will help them, but addicts must want the help for it to work."

"So you are a doctor."

"Oh no, well I guess I am, I just finished schooling but I will be leaving soon to put my medical skills to use abroad."

It began snowing and the world seemed to dim as soft snowflakes fell around them. It was peaceful and hauntingly beautiful at the same time. He could see that even John was caught in the spell as the sandy-haired man let out a content sigh and further leaned back onto the cold wall behind him.

And just like that, it felt like the world was right, as if everything was good and nothing could break the moment. The need for cocaine or heroin was stilled and muffled, the anger he had felt with Mycroft had rested, and the many thoughts that constantly ran through his head had quieted. Instead the word John was left echoing peacefully in his mind.

They sat next to each for the next half hour or so, sometimes exchanging small conversations, and sometimes relaxing in the quiet company they had with one another. Finally the peace had to be broken as John looked down at his watch and let out a small curse.

"Sorry, but I must be going now, I didn't know so much time had passed already." He got up and brushed the small amounts of snow that had slightly accumulated on his pants and shoes. "It was nice meeting you; I hope that I do meet you again, but in better conditions than now." He took off his worn brown scarf and offered out with the same slight shake that he had done with the bag of food.

"Take it; you need it more than I do."

He stood up and accepted the scarf. He didn't say thank you but instead quickly wrapped it around his own neck and basked in the warmth the scarf had accumulated from John's neck and the smell of what he imagined home would be like with a small hint of antiseptic. John seemed to understand that accepting the scarf and wearing it was his way of showing his gratitude and simply replied back with a nod of the head and a smile. As John gave a last wave of goodbye he brought up his abandoned violin and played a nostalgic, but gentle melody.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes and was greeted with the harsh glare from the telly in the living room. In the past he has dreamt of that memory on several occasions but never the full memory. He no longer had the scarf as it had become too worn over the years to be of any use, but he could still feel the warmth he had felt that day. He closed his eyes once more to relax in the brief happiness and peace he found in it before opening them again to look down at the man leaning against his chest.

John seemed to have fallen asleep too during the movie and remained in his previous position of lying against Sherlock and curled up with his arms folded. John had insisted on watching this so called, "Holiday Classic" and somehow managed to convince him to stay and watch as well. They had previously thrown a soft quilted blanket that Mrs. Hudson had given them for good measure against the cold before the movie began and the coziness as well as the warmth seemed to have done them both in.

It had been six years since Sherlock had seen John again. Instead of the curious and gentle man he had met on that snowy day out on the streets, John had returned scarred, tired, and damaged. John did not remember him but Sherlock knew he probably wouldn't as the consulting detective had drastically changed from their first meeting. Sherlock however, had instantly recognized the doctor from the moment he had walked into the underground labs at St. Barts.

After seeing him that fateful day, having John to become his new flatmate became his goal. When their friendship had unexpectedly developed into the relationship they had now was something he never could have predicted but he enjoyed it all the same. To know that this army doctor, this ordinary but yet so extraordinary man had become the object of his undivided affection and attention is something he probably would never admit out loud. It wasn't him, it wasn't what he did. Before he never allowed himself to get attached, before he kept others away to protect himself, but that was before he met John.

However, if John wanted him to confess his love in an impressive, dramatized fashion, he supposed he could figure something out.

Sherlock began playing with the head of sandy, blonde hair in front of him. Twisting, threading, and massaging his long fingers through the tresses of short hair. He looked up but didn't stop as he now stared past the bright television screen at the windows. A small chime from the clock that stood on the mantle above their fireplace alerted Sherlock that it was midnight.

Sherlock bent down and gave a small, gentle kiss on top of John's head. The motion of Sherlock's body disturbed the shorter man but he did not wake. Instead he simply moved closer to snuggle against the warm body behind him and let out a small sigh. Sherlock continued with his ministrations on the doctor's head as he returned his attention to the window. It had begun snowing outside and he felt the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips.

"Merry Christmas John."

* * *

Hi Everybody!

It's been a while since I last wrote anything but this idea just popped in my head yesterday and I had to upload it for Christmas. Christmas is my favorite holiday as I always associate it with good food, warm company, and the love of humanity in the midst of a cold season. Did I mention the awesome food again? Also the music, can't forget the music.

I hope you enjoyed this small fic, and may you have a Very Merry Christmas and Happy Holiday cheers!

My tumblr: vellacora . tumblr . com


End file.
